Theater Lovers
by Punzie the Platypus
Summary: TLBD-verse. Slight AU. Lizzie's new phone is taking longer to update than anticipated, so she /does/ end up going to the theater, alone, with Darcy, on a not-date. It's not a date, right? (It's a date.) Dizzie!


_**Soli Deo gloria**_

 **DISCLAIMER: I do NOT own TLBD or P &P. Or Broadway. Or The Fiddler on the Roof.**

 **I rewatched TLBD and GOT INSPIRED. This fits in with The Secret Diary of Lizzie Bennet and episode 84.**

 **What if Lizzie's phone had taken forever to activate and update? What if she and Darcy went out to the theater together? These are the questions I asked myself and so I wrote this story so we can** _ **all**_ **have the answers we've longed for, LOL.**

~ Lizzie Bennet's Point of View ~

How are you supposed to get dressed to go to the theater with the guy you really, really hated for a really long time but kinda don't anymore, and might actually like, like, like-like? (What are we, in middle school? But that's the thing. I maybe do like-like him. I honestly don't know.)

Part of me wanted to call Charlotte, but by the time I got back to Dr. Gardiner's friend's really nice apartment, I was running out of time. I had no phone at the moment—well, I had my super pretty, super-nice, lovely new plaything, but it was still updating. Still charging, too. I was torn between bringing it with me on this date so I could be there the moment it woke up from its coma, and leaving it here just in case constantly checking my phone kills the vibe.

'Date?' Did I say ' _date'_? This is getting way out of hand and I need to rein it in while I can. By that, I mean I can't talk to myself like this or I'll let it slip out in front of everyone—Gigi, Charlotte, Jane—Darcy.

Was it a _date_ , though? What were we doing? Two 'platonic' friends going out to the freaking theater together? I wondered what it would've been before Gigi oh-so-conveniently called out at the last minute. I was ninety-five percent sure that was a strategic move made purposely on her part. Gigi Darcy, sweet as she is, is see-through when it comes to me and her brother.

Is it a date? Should I ask Darcy? Should I play it off, play it cool, like we're totally platonic friends—or colleagues—or co-workers?—or acquaintances?—or something, and I so do not have romance on the mind at all? Augh! I wish I had my phone. I had no guarantee that an S.O.S. message to Charlotte or any of my sisters on social media would be noticed in time (I'm due at the resturant in an hour) so I guess I'm winging it, all by myself. You know, since moving out from Meryton to the big city of San Francisco, I'd done a lot by myself that I never would've thought capable before. This was no big deal—no big deal at all—just going on a not-date with my not-boss.

Wow, that's not weird or anything, right?

I ended up putting on a nicely-cut blouse that had been approved by Jane and some dress pants. Then, on second thought, a pencil skirt. Come on—it's the theater. Red carpet and gold knobs and porters in caps wearing gloves. You have to dress up a _little_.

I was second-guessing my choice—would a dress be more appropriate for this high-class occasion?—when I heard a horn outside my window. Now, the traffic noise in San Francisco could be loud sometimes, but somehow this sounded like it was a direct call—like it was for me to hear personally.

Opening one of my windows, the wind tangling my hair, I looked down to see a fancy car. There was a driver I knew: Darcy's chauffeur (have I spent a lot of my downtime in the mornings waiting for the boss to show up for Pemberley Digital meetings and so can recognize his driver and car? . . . Maybe . . .).

I hadn't ask him to pick me up. Yet there he was, looking like he was searching the ground for a rock to throw against my window in case I somehow didn't hear his blaring horn. "Hey!" I called down.

He craned his neck. "Oh. Lizzie." Like he wasn't expecting me there after he made a point of bringing me there.

"What's with the car?" I said. What I don't want to shout across San Fan public streets is "Why are you picking me up?"

He scoffed his polished shoes against the sidewalk before looking up and, squinting against the sun, said, "I realized I made the error of choosing a restaurant not quite in walking distance from your apartment. Rather than cause you undue stress and wear and tear, should you be wearing heels, I decided the best course of action was to remedy the error the best I know how, hence the car ride."

Wait, should I be wearing heels? Did Darcy _want_ to see me in heels? Obviously, he's expecting that it might be a choice of apparel to wear on our not-date. Or maybe he _did_ see it as a date.

I should've studied harder in class. Obviously getting a degree in Mass Communications should've better prepared me for the real world.

"That was . . . thoughtful of you," I called down.

"I apologize also for not having called," Darcy called back.

"No, it's okay. My phone is down right now," I called.

"Oh. I see. Well, have I arrived too early or . . ." he said, his gaze dropping down.

"No, no," I said. "Your timing is just . . . perfect. I'll be right down." I killed the smile growing on my face (which was hard to do, in retrospect. It kinda just grows on me . . . like he did) and closed the window. I stuck my phone in my purse in case it finished its activation while we're out and about and hopped on one foot wrestling off my unattractive athletic sneakers (I solely walk around San Francisco, usually) and tug on my one pair of high heels (which Jane also approved of, thank God).

The elevator saved my feet just as his car was going to save my feet. He looked up when I appeared on the pavement. It's never been too hard to read William Darcy's face. He either totally wore his heart on his sleeve or donned this poker face, this impenetrable shield that only those who know him so well can decipher.

It's the poker face this time. I could read it, though. He was trying to hide how pleased he is to see me, and failed. And William Darcy doesn't usually fail.

He's also rendered speechless, which is a good thing? I don't know!

"Cat got your tongue?" I said, coming to his side.

"I'm sorry," he said, "I just . . ." he cleared his throat and said, straightening, "You look beautiful, Lizzie."

Clear, concise, honest. And nice. Like, _really_ nice to hear.

"Well, thank you. You clean up all right yourself," I said.

I mentally kicked myself. I was trying to be calm and cool (and maybe a little flirtatious) but inside I felt so stupid and fumbling and nervous. 'Cause his shirt clung to his shoulders and I had to restrain my fingers; they were inching to play with his tie. It was just so . . . there, mocking me and enticing me. And it was _really_ tempting.

He offered me his muscular arm (where does he find the time to work out? Maybe we can coordinate a gym date at Pememberly's in-house gym—'cause they totally have that) and said, "Are you ready to enjoy an evening out to the theater, Lizzie Bennet?"

I smiled. "More than ready."

(What does that even mean? Help! Falling for William Darcy is _ruining_ my ability to hold a normal conversation!)

His car was super nice inside and the champagne was delicious ('cause what my topsy-turvy stomach needs is more bubbles and alcohol, obviously) and the drive to the Marina was gorgeous. We dined at one of his and Gigi's favorite seafood restaurants. It was fun. He was spontaneous, throwing away our menus and telling the waiter to have the chef serve us his choice. What we received was the freshest catch of the day cooked in tender, flaky ways and served with a range of creamy and acidic sauces. "The chef is an old family friend. He knows what I like," Darcy explained. "I figured whatever I'd like you would as well. Was I correct in this assumption?"

I swallowed the last bite of my third piece of fish and ended up giving him a thumb's up. He seemed pleased by this nonverbal gesture.

We arrived at the theater about an hour before the show. I couldn't remember the last time I went to the theater, but I don't think any experience can top this one. I'm pretty sure my jaw was gaping the entire time. Everyone was dressed up like it was a black-tie event; there was valet parking and every employee wore red jackets with brass buttons. I even saw a dude wearing a distinguished top hat.

Darcy got the door for me and I just kinda stood there gawking at the posters for upcoming Broadway shows. "You know, I don't even know what show we're going to see," I said, once I could find my voice.

Darcy nodded to a poster. I half-expected it to be some sophisticated Shakespeare play. It was not. It was 'Fiddler on the Roof', a musical. Wow. Didn't see that one coming.

"I was in 'Fiddler of the Roof'," I said suddenly.

Darcy's eyebrows furrowed. "You were? When?"

"Ninth grade. I was the matchmaker. I got to dress up haggardly and promise Golde I'd find husbands for her three daughters." I scoffed. "It seems I get typecast into one specific character." My performance as Yente in the years of my youth prepared me for the greatest role of my life: acting as my mother on my vlogs.

Okay, now Darcy really _was_ hiding a smile. "I am sorry," he apologized, "I can just imagine what a successful performance you must've put on."

"I thrive under stage lights and I've always been able to fake an accent pretty well," I said.

He's really kinda cute when he's smiling.

We hung out on the red-carpeted lobby and levels waiting for half an hour to pass before seating. Darcy explained that he and his sister were ticket season holders, so I'm pretty sure we could've entered his private box at any point, but I think he wanted to give me an opportunity to people-watch, and talk.

Because we did talk. We leaned against a railing and looked out the huge glass windows and held our programs tight and talked about stuff. Well, small talk (we've gotten kinda good at that) and other topics. We stayed away from several topics I did _not_ want to talk about (Jane, what came after graduation from grad school, how my family (read: Lydia) was doing, etc. . .) and several I _did_ want to talk about (Gigi and George, Darcy being such a beloved leader at Pememberly, the fact that I like him a lot, etc. . .).

"Lizzie, have you been enjoying your stay here in San Francisco?" Darcy asked.

"I have been enjoying my stay immensely. I've learned a lot here and I really appreciate you allowing me to shadow your company. It's been invaluable for my independent studies," I said, touching his arm.

After a moment, he said, "I too have been enjoying your stay here. San Francisco seems to suit you."

I agreed with him. Despite its unforgiving hills, San Francisco has been a welcoming breath of fresh air. If I could make myself financially stable, I'd move here in a heartbeat.

"Is there perhaps a chance that a permanent move to this marvelous city would be a venture you'd seek out in the near future?" Darcy asked.

My mouth dropped open. I wanted to speak, but then the ushers were telling everyone that the doors were open. A tall one purposely sought us out and said, "Mr. Darcy, allow me to escort you to your box."

"Of course, Reynolds." Darcy coolly offered me his elbow and I wondered if I should've responded quicker (but I couldn't, I can't—I won't make such a huge decision without thoroughly thinking it through) as he said, "Lead the way."

The private box offered a great view of the stage. There was a fun buzz of people getting seated and picking over their programs and fidgeting in their seats. I stared at the crimson red stage curtain and wondered what to say. Darcy checked his pocket watch and fidgeted with his phone. I sat straight-backed and silent in my seat, not sure what to do.

Darcy and I . . . we don't do small talk (turns out we . . . _haven't_ gotten good at it). And that last subject was such a big, loaded question, I didn't think I could give him a quick yet satisfying answer.

I burst, "The idea of moving to San Francisco has entered my mind. Until I finish this independent study and launch well into my last one, however, I can't make a final answer as to whether or not I will."

Darcy's fingers had stopped over his phone. He said, "Is the chance removed entirely by my outburst?"

I realized it then; all the time I've known Darcy, I've willfully misunderstood him. Just now, I thought he was being cool because of me; but it wasn't me. He thought _he_ overstepped.

"No, not at all. It just isn't a question I'm prepared to answer. That's all," I said.

Darcy nodded. "Understandable. You've been here a few weeks; you were also at Collins & Collins for almost as long, yet you don't plan to move there."

"No, I can't say I am," I said. I love Charlotte, but Catherine de Bourgh was enough to put me off. San Francisco, however, offered her much nicer niece and nephew.

"Consider it, though, Lizzie," Darcy said. Then he did the unthinkable—he reached out and took my hand. His wrist against my knee, his long fingers intertwined with mine. And it was like that electricity we felt when we touched hands on the dock was intensified tenfold. It was staticky and hot and I devoured the feeling. "For me?"

I _wanted_ to speak; I felt rendered almost speechless, but I managed, "I will keep it in mind." And I squeezed his hand back.

The curtain opened and we were treated to a fantastic performance that rivaled even my own high school one. Despite the fantastic acting and the insane sets, though, all I could concentrate on was his hand in mine. Six months ago, I would've thrown his hand off, or sat there stewing in my own angry juices. Now my heart beat fast and I never wanted to let go.

I knew he was watching the musical, but I could feel his eyes on me as 'Sunrise, Sunset' was sung. I could feel the tears in my eyes (musicals shouldn't be this relatable) while watching. It was hypnotically beautiful.

The wedding reception was ruined and the curtain set to a round of applause. I felt like I woke up as the lights came on; people stood up to mill and drink and use the bathroom as it was intermission.

"What do you think so far?" Darcy wondered.

"It was . . . beautiful," I said, recovering my composure.

"It's one of my favorites," he said.

"I never imagined you as a person who loves musicals, or the theater in general," I said. "But then, there's a lot I don't know about you."

There was this strange intensity in his eyes. I recognized it. Even though the theater was packed, this box was all ours. We ignored the ushers in the back because to us, they weren't there. It was just us, him gazing into my eyes and me wondering if kissing him in a crowded theater was a good idea.

I would have, too, if my phone hadn't blown up.

I had forgotten about my new phone. I didn't even know that its volume was on. But apparently it was finished activating and pinging like crazy. "Um," I said, "I should get that."

"Yes," he said, his voice low, "you should."

I gulped and wished I didn't stop looking at him as I rummaged through my purse. I picked up my phone. "Charlotte's been trying to call me," I said in a weird voice. "Ten missed calls, _seventeen missed text messages_?" I quickly called her and she picked up without a single ring.

. . . I don't like to think about our conversation. I don't like remembering the dread filling my stomach like lead and the feeling of panicking and horror enveloping me. I barely remember Darcy leading me to the car and directing his driver to quickly stop at my apartment and then go to the airport. "Lizzie," Darcy said, standing by my open passenger window as the driver put the key into the ignition, "you will be okay. Everything will come out right."

"But how?" I said, tears muffling my voice.

"I don't know. But it will. Trust me," he said. He squeezed my hand before the car pulled away and I left him standing there outside the theater.

The show must go on. And what was becoming the best night of my life was quickly turning into a nightmare you can't escape from.

I ended up dry-heaving and sobbing a little in the back of the car on the way to the airport. I cried for the horror of what I was coming home to, and for what I loved that I was leaving behind.

 **That took a sad, drastic turn. But I wanted this to fit in the timeline of the original series. Also, I don't know if FotR was running in San Fran back in 2013, but for the sake of the story, it was, LOL.**

 **Thanks for reading! Review?**


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